


Garraway's

by beatriceHB, Meglifluous



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 18th Century, Brawling in public, Budding Love, Class Issues, Eventual Romance, Foul Language, Jealousy, London, M/M, Male Homosexuality, POV Male Character, repressed sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatriceHB/pseuds/beatriceHB, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meglifluous/pseuds/Meglifluous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dashing friend from Lord Hamilton's past awakens some uncomfortable feelings of jealousy in Lieutenant James McGraw before the latter fully understands his feelings for the former.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garraway's

**Author's Note:**

> This story was created for Tumblr's James Flint/Thomas Hamilton Appreciation Week, hosted by the amazing @flintxhamilton. We don't know what day it best fits in, so we'll just go with "day seven: anything you want." And what we wanted was to play with the period of time after James had fallen in love but before he understood his own feelings. This took tremendous restraint on the parts of both authors as it therefore necessarily falls before their first kiss. So, yeah, it's a little on the fluffy side: catty, bloody, caffeinated, and filled with inconvenient hard-ons and longing, but sweet. 
> 
> Unless you ask Lord Jonathan Fitzwilliam Trevelyan, that is. He didn't find the experience charming at all....

 

~ Installment 1, [Beatrice](http://beatrice3030.tumblr.com/) ~

 

“Great God! If it isn’t the golden boy of Christ’s College.”

Thomas startled a little and tore his gaze away from the Lieutenant who walked stiffly at his side, turning his head toward the familiar voice. It must have been two years at least, since he’d heard those cut glass vowels and that low and lilting cadence, but they had lost none of their power to transport him back to his youth: First Court in Cambridge; the dorm they’d shared; the long nights they’d spent sampling every flavour of undergraduate disobedience. No one knew him better.

“Jonty?”

Upon his word, the thick London fog parted to reveal the tall and immaculately dressed apparition of Jonathan Fitzwilliam Trevelyan, the third Viscount Cary. He had just stepped down from his poste-chaise, and was now fighting his way through the maelstrom of humanity that separated his side of the road from theirs. Everything about him spoke of the perpetual student, from the ink that stained his fingers, to his bearing, which was two parts excitable to one part listless. When he was still some distance away, he paused to regard Thomas from behind a curtain of dark hair; his eyes taking a brazen and leisurely promenade from Thomas’s knees up to his face.

“Jesus Hambers,” he said finally, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Thomas grinned “I have! Two years and not a word… for heaven’s sake, Jonty!”

“Oh, don’t scold,” Trevelyan tutted, good-naturedly. “I’ve had _hours_ of that already from father. I was going to write, but you know… the post in Florence is so unreliable, it’s hardly worth putting pen to paper. And anyway, I had no good news to report.”

“The book…?”

“Still unfinished I’m afraid.” He raised an eyebrow and inspected his fingernails in faux bashfulness. “There were _distractions_.”

Thomas laughed and felt his eyes roll heavenward: nothing changes. Trevelyan shrugged as if to say ‘what did you expect?’ He was perfectly happy to be a laughing stock.

“Anyway Hambers, what the devil are you doing in Lombard street? You’re not in need of money, surely?”

Thomas looked about him then, suddenly remembering where he was and who he was with.

“Lombard Street, yes. And no… he hasn’t cut me off just yet, although the old goat never stops threatening! Actually, we’ve just come from Lloyds. We were gathering quotes for shipping insurance. It’s all in aid of a quite revolutionary proposal I’m writing…”

“Yes, yes,” Trevelyan interrupted, throwing his arm around Thomas’s shoulders and forcing his friend to wear him like an expensive coat. “I’m sure it’s terribly worthy, and you absolutely _must_ bore me with it later, but first of all,” here he cast a quizzical glance at James, “who precisely is ‘we’?”

“Oh, of course!” Thomas followed the direction of his friend’s gaze, and could not help but notice that James had drawn himself up to his full height and taken a step closer. Was it a protective gesture? No, that was a dangerous thought… He cleared his throat: “I haven’t introduced you, how remiss of me. This is James… Lieutenant McGraw, I should say... he’s my liaison.”

Thomas had meant to indicate James with a discrete hand-gesture, but somehow the movement transformed into a possessive squeeze of his forearm. He withdrew his hand quickly and stuffed it into his pocket, where it couldn’t get into trouble.

“Is he now? How wonderful.” Trevelyan’s grin grew to cheshire cat proportions, and he regarded James with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “If I pop along to the Admiralty and ask nicely, d’you think they’ll give me one too?”

Thomas flushed, and opened his mouth to complete the introduction, but Trevelyan cut him off with an insouciant sweep of his hand.

“Enchanted to meet you Lieutenant, I’m Lord Trevelyan, but _you_ can call me Jonathan. And since you boys have been hard at it all morning, might I suggest we all go for a spot of recreation? It’s not good for a man’s health to work all day.” Turning his attention once again to Thomas, he added “Garraway’s is just around the corner. Shall we? My treat!”

~ Installment 2, [Megan](http://bornofsuchdarkthings.tumblr.com/) ~ 

 

 _Hambers? Jonty?_  What the fuck was happening? Lieutenant James McGraw glowered at the young man standing before Lord Thomas Hamilton and instantly began hating him with every fiber of his being. Bad enough that he was educated, rich and wickedly good-looking—the way he stared at Lord Hamilton was utterly intolerable. And that was _before_ Thomas had smiled back.

And why Garraway’s, for Christ’s sake? Why couldn’t they go to Lloyd’s like normal people? Oh, because they _weren’t_ normal people, were they? The Cambridge Lords and their pet Naval Officer, embracing in the street—who _did_ that!? Well, anyone with enough money and prestige not to care what other people thought, obviously. And maybe this Lord “But you can call me Jonathan” Trevelyan could afford to make such a spectacle of himself, but people already thought Thomas Hamilton half-mad.  James found himself furious almost beyond speaking that this fop—some kind of former classmate of Thomas’, apparently—should take such risks with the young Lord Hamilton’s reputation. As much as he was suddenly dreading an afternoon he’d been quite keen on right up until the appearance of Lord Fancypants, perhaps it was just as well that he went along. He had no intention of leaving Thomas alone with this buffoon.

As he followed a step behind them, the Lieutenant could see Lord Hamilton glancing repeatedly over his shoulder at him but could not seem to force his face out of its scowl. Silently admonishing himself, James forced his chin up and tried to distract himself by focusing his gaze on the slope of Lord Hamilton’s shoulders.  

“And how’s Margaret?” Trevelyan was asking.

“Miranda,” Thomas corrected gently with another worried glance over his shoulder. “And she’s quite well, thank you.” This time Trevelyan followed Thomas’ gaze and his sharply arched eyebrows jutted up in exaggerated comprehension.

“Oh, so it’s more Lancelot and Guinevere than Achilles and Patroclus, I take it? Now that _is_ disappointing.”

Thomas flushed again, his cheeks reddening visibly, and James almost tripped over a cobblestone.

“Careful, Jonty,” Thomas murmured to his friend. “Lieutenant McGraw is rather astonishingly well-read.” He glanced at James over his shoulder again, a soft smile warming his intelligent blue eyes. “Have you ever encountered Aeschylus’ _The Myrmidons_ , Lieutenant?”

“Afraid not, My Lord. But I’m quite familiar with the _Illiad_.” _Although thoroughly unclear on what the fuck it has to do with anything happening here…_

Jonathan smirked at Thomas in a way James didn’t like, seeming to feel that his point had been substantiated.  They had made it to the corner of Exchange Alley by then, a large and officious crowd bustling in and out of Garraway’s, and James’ scowl sunk into a soft, anxious frown. There was a finely powdered wig on every head inside and habits of silk, velvet and brocade as far as the eye could see. The Lieutenant removed his hat as the crowd jostled around him, thoroughly convinced that he was about to be the first son of a carpenter’s mate to ever step through the door. He was debating whether or not he could get away with excusing himself after all when he felt Thomas very gently touch the rough wool of his jacket sleeve. He looked up at him, startled by how close they were with the crowd pressing around them, to find an increasingly familiar smile of gentle encouragement on the young Lord’s face. Their eyes met briefly before they both looked quickly away.

“Perhaps the matter isn’t fully settled,” Trevelyan chuckled, ribbing Thomas with his elbow.

“Jonty, really!” Thomas laughed and James’ hands clenched into fists at his side as he followed the two young Lords into the coffeehouse.

They made their way to the large coffee room upstairs and were shown to a small round marble table almost exactly in the center of the floor, Lord Trevelyan recounting some adventure in Italy as they settled in and ordered. James started to put his hat on the small table, thought better of it and turned to see if he could hang it off the back of his chair, but finding no obvious way to do so, swallowed and was moving to rest it on one knee when Lord Hamilton took it from him suddenly with a quick half-smile and gracefully passed it to a member of the wait staff, who hung it on a nearby coat rack without comment. James stared at the polished wooden floor beneath his boots, wishing it would open up and swallow him whole, but no relief was forthcoming. Had he just embarrassed Thomas? Fuck, what was he even doing there?

“All right, tell me all about this marvelous proposal of yours, Hambers,” Trevelyan was saying with a garish fluttering of his long, dark lashes. “This isn’t about the Bahamas again, is it? Honestly, I’m surprised your father hasn’t burned every island there back into the sea…”

 

~ Installment 3, [Beatrice](http://beatrice3030.tumblr.com/) ~

Thomas grimaced. He’d known from a tender age that his father was a thoroughly unpleasant man, but for some reason it still pained him to hear his friends make that same observation.

"If he hasn’t, it’s only because he can’t turn a profit from the ashes. That’s what the Crown has tasked him with doing, and he in turn has tasked me.”

Trevelyan rolled his eyes. “Turn a profit from the Bahamas? Good luck! Incomes have been in freefall for years thanks to our friends the privateers.”

Leaning forward, his face lit up with zeal, Thomas gripped the table as though it were a lectern, or possibly a pulpit. “A commonly-held misconception, but quite wrong I assure you! Incomes have not fallen _because_ of them, but because of the _conditions_ that create them! Those conditions can be addressed...” He tried not to notice that his friend’s expression was more indulgent than interested. A quick glance at the Lieutenant’s rapt attention gave him all the encouragement he needed. “The pirates are men like any other. And what man would not exchange a life of brutal criminality for the chance to live his life free, fairly governed, his dignity respected, his natural rights protected in law?!”

Trevelyan took a moment to chew on that thought while Thomas caught his breath. When he replied his voice was soft. “And what if some of them have grown to rather enjoy their life of brutal criminality?”

Thomas’ brow furrowed with incomprehension. “Who on earth could enjoy brutality?”

Across the table, he noticed James look up from his anxious study of the bewildering range of cutlery at his disposal, and briefly catch Trevelyan’s eye. A look passed between them, the briefest flicker of communication, and then it was gone. Trevelyan swallowed and pressed on, politely ignoring Thomas’s question as though it were an ill-timed burst of applause at the opera.

“And what was your father’s reaction to this proposal?”

Thomas’s shoulders sagged like two sails that had lost the wind. “I haven’t put it to him quite yet,” he admitted quietly, “it’s still something of a work in progress.” Then with more vim he continued. “But I am confident I can win his support, if only because it will secure the income he so badly wants.”

With gentle insistence, Trevelyan prised Thomas’s hand from the edge of the table and then held it softly, in full view of anyone who cared to look. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but before he could, James startled in his chair and put his hand on his sword defensively, his eyes fixed on Trevelyan’s offending fingers as though they held some kind of incendiary device, rather than the hand of his friend. For his part, Trevelyan acknowledged the challenge with a sidelong glance, and then gave way. But he did so in his own time; releasing Thomas’s hand only after he’d caressed the back of it possessively with his thumb. Thomas sat frozen and helpless throughout the whole exchange, looking from one to the other in mild alarm. _What was that? Jealousy? Or just fear for my reputation?_ As he pondered it, he felt Trevelyan kick him discreetly under the table to regain his attention.

“Take care with this Hambers,” he said, looking at Thomas intently, “you’re no longer eighteen and the House of Lords isn’t a debating society. He won’t just dock your allowance if you embarrass him again.”

Groaning, Thomas replied. “ _I know!_ But Jonty, what has been the point of my expensive education if I’m to sit in parliament simpering with bovine placidity at precisely the moment when I might finally make a difference?! I’m sick of turning up once a month to shout ‘hurrah’ when my father stands at the despatch box to spew out a fresh torrent of efflux. And anyway,” he sniffed, “I have James to keep me on the right side of political reality.” _I don’t need a lecture from you_.

He wanted to say more, but a sudden peal of church bells quieted him, making them all sit up and turn their heads. It was something of a relief to break eye-contact with Trevelyan, whose burst of intensity had begun to feel suffocating. “There goes Saint Mary Woolnoth,” he murmured, distractedly.

Trevelyan completed the thought, somewhat tersely. “God himself is calling time on all this unpleasant talk, and who are we to argue with Him! Ah, coffee…”

The waiters swooped in and circled their table discretely, filling their cups and distributing plates of morsels. And as they began to eat and drink, Trevelyan inclined his head toward Thomas and whispered, “look lively Hambers, your _liaison_ is about to come a cropper.” Thomas followed his gaze, and acted just in time to prevent James from stirring his coffee with a socially unacceptable spoon; spiriting the offending object away with a conjurer’s sleight-of-hand. He noticed as he did so that James looked utterly dejected, possibly rather more so than could be explained by mere embarrassment. The hand that Trevelyan had recently held began to burn in Thomas’ lap. _Was it jealousy then? Oh fuck it all, why does the man have to be so inscrutable!_

Each man stared deep into his coffee, sipping thoughtfully, and an uncomfortable silence settled over their table like a fall of snow, it’s coldness made all the more pronounced by the heat and noise that emitted from every other part of the room: the clattering of dice, eruptions of raucous laughter, and the hiss of a hundred tobacco pipes discharging their fumes into the air.

James glowered at Trevelyan, as though he would have welcomed any excuse to stab him with one of his eight choices of fork, and it warmed Thomas a little to see it. He stared at James over the lip of his cup, the steam providing a welcome (if inadequate) smokescreen for his ardour. If only he could see himself now: how strong, how powerful, how real he looked, set against all these preening fops! Even Trevelyan - who had always seemed so full of life - appeared sketchy and two-dimensional by comparison. Thomas felt his stomach contract with a pang of hunger that had nothing whatever to do with the hours that had transpired since breakfast. _Great God Thomas, you are lost…_

He cleared his throat and set his cup down, feeling duty bound to thaw the frost: “James has been the most incredible help to me,” he said, continuing to look fondly at the Lieutenant, who rewarded him with a taut smile. “He’s quite the orator. I’ve persuaded him to attend a great many of my salons, and he defends my arguments with more eloquence than I do!” _Eloquence and grace and muscular assertiveness. Oh God, what do I think I’m doing with my knee!?_

“Well he’s certainly made an impression on _you_.” Trevelyan observed, a trifle darkly. “But he seems fearfully quiet in my company. Maybe I should treat him to the full glare of my sparkling personality.”

Turning to James he placed an elbow on the table and rested his face on his hand, the better to look up at him with wide, innocent, eyes.

“Well now Lieutenant McGraw, how do you find the coffee here? Hambers tells me that you Navy boys are partial to a drop of something bitter on the tongue, what say you?”

Thomas tried to contain his anxious laugh, but only succeeded in forcing it out through his nose in a deeply inelegant snort.

 

~ Installment 4, [Megan](http://bornofsuchdarkthings.tumblr.com/) ~ 

“More so than a mouth full of shit, certainly.”

It came out before he’d even finished deciding whether or not he had properly understood Trevelyan’s allusion, and once he saw Thomas begin to shake with silent laughter, he wasn’t sorry, either. Between the hat and the spoons and the hand-holding and the completely inexplicable hard-on that had sprung to life the moment Lord Hamilton’s knee had accidentally pressed against his own, James was out of patience and completely over the fantasy of ever fitting in at a place like this.

“I find the coffee here perfectly acceptable, thank you, but the conversation somewhat lacking,” His eyes darted to Thomas then and he didn’t mean to press his knee back so forcefully against the other man’s, but it did seem to underline the point he was trying to make as he addressed his next comment exclusively to him. “Through no fault of your own, My Lord, I assure you.” Leaving his knee where it was-- _well, hell, they’re just knees aren’t they? Perhaps it brings him some comfort...or communicates that I will protect him, which I fucking will, and Lord GrabsAlot had best know it! And for fuck sake, why are these tables so bloody small!?_ \--James turned his scowling attention back to Trevelyan. “I’m sure your behavior is terribly precious in the ivory towers of higher education, but out here in the real world one does not risk a man’s reputation for his own amusement, nor does he make disparaging remarks concerning another’s derivation without being expressly invited to do so. And although it is certainly not uncommon to spout off at great lengths about subjects with which one is _grossly_ unfamiliar, one does not often dare to do so in the face of such a _devoted_ and _accomplished champion_ of said issue. So if there _is_ a sparkling personality under there somewhere, by all means turn it up. Otherwise, I would be more than happy to discuss this with you at greater length _outside_!”

Jesus, what was wrong with him? It was too much, he knew. His anger had gotten the better of him--again--and although he wished desperately to apologize to Lord Hamilton, he was too busy counting his breaths and staring the bud vase on the table into submission to risk speaking again. _One… two… three..._ Why was he so furious with this man!? The things he had said to him were true enough, but the Lieutenant was not exactly known for being a stickler for etiquette, at least not where other people’s behavior was concerned. _Four...five…six…_ Truthfully, no matter how appalling someone else was acting there was nothing less polite than calling them on it, he knew that. But something -- _seven_ \-- about Trevelyan made his blood boil -- _eight_ \-- and he wanted rather wildly to sweep Tho-- _nine_ \--Lord Hamilton away from him once and for all.

At _ten_ , James noticed his knee was still pressing hard against Thomas’ and started to withdraw it, only to feel Thomas press back rather urgently. James flushed, his mouth falling slightly open as he struggled to regulate his breathing. He was not one for panic, but felt something akin to it rising in the back of his throat. Was he afraid of Trevelyan? A glance at the blinking pratt made James scoff aloud. Fuck that guy, it would be a _pleasure_ to take him down. He turned toward Lord Hamilton then with a wince and a swallow, realizing with growing bewilderment that it was Thomas he feared to face. What if he were angry? What if he disapproved?  These possibilities were somehow intolerable.

James glanced up into the Lord’s bright blue eyes with trepidation and waited for judgement to be passed. _Please know I meant no disrespect to you, My Lord. Please understand that everything I’ve done, everything I am...it’s all…_

_...in service…_

_...of you…._

 

~ Installment 5, [Beatrice](http://beatrice3030.tumblr.com/) ~

He knew he ought to be shocked. Horrified even. That was the appropriate response to such a reckless and hot-headed outburst, whatever had provoked it. _And dear God, hadn’t Trevelyan provoked it!_ But in truth, Thomas felt the most powerful surge of delight coursing through him; it forced the breath from his lungs and lit up his face with a giggly and adolescent smile that he simply couldn’t supress. _My champion!_

It didn’t help that James was looking at him like that: his penetrating eyes so hungry for approval and understanding; his chest heaving with emotion as he struggled to compose himself, his lips all twitchy and volatile, pulling away from his teeth in that unbearably sensual way they always did in moments of stress.

And that was _before_ he allowed himself to consider the conversation going on beneath the table; his wordless question that James’s body had answered so powerfully in the affirmative, and with such _need_. For a moment, he’d been able to feel nothing else, just his knee and the heat that travelled up his thigh and made him harder than he’d ever been. It made him grateful that he was sitting down. _And I’ll wager I’m not the only one..._ The Lieutenant’s head might conceal the truth from him, but there were other parts that had already given up the fight. Thomas’s hand rose to his mouth at the thought; fingertips brushing his lips as his mind created a vivid picture for him; alive with touch and taste and…

“Are you going to let him speak to me like that?!”

Trevelyan’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. And it was with some effort that Thomas managed to wrench his attention from James, and look, _really look_ , at his friend. Jonty’s rage had a thin quality to it, a weakness. It diminished him somehow and made him appear comical. The libertine smirk that usually simpered on his lips was entirely gone, and in its place was an angry slit. It spat across the table at Thomas:

“Him! Speak like that to _me_! It’s too much! You’ve always had some thoroughly peculiar notions about class and equality, I’ll grant you that. And haven’t I always overlooked them? Haven’t I _indulged_ you? But this…” here he paused to jab an accusing finger in James’ direction, “is a step too far! If you must consort with this fucking oik, you’re going to need to keep him on a tighter leash! Well? What do you say?!”

Thomas sat back, lifted his cup to his mouth, and took a leisurely sip; his eyes returning the full intensity of James’ gaze. _Do as you will Lieutenant, and do it with my blessing. The man’s a complete arse, and you’re worth ten of him._  

“I did warn you Jonty,” he murmured dreamily. “He’s quite the orator.”

“Fine!” With a toss of his head, Trevelyan rose to his feet and glared down his nose at James. “Since you have clearly taken leave of your senses, the Lieutenant and I had best settle this our way.”

~ Installment 6, [Megan](http://bornofsuchdarkthings.tumblr.com/) ~ 

“ _Our_ way?” James looked up at Trevelyan with one ginger eyebrow arched. Despite being conflicted about standing up with such an obvious erection, the Lieutenant had been thoroughly galvanized by Thomas’ response and felt ready to take on the world. “I’m sorry, I’m confused, what way would _that_ be? Do you mean _my_ way, where I beat you until your own mother wouldn’t recognize you, or _your_ way, where you run, crying to the first poor nursemaid you see and offer her two shillings to let you suckle at her teet until your nerves are soothed?”  

As Trevelyan sputtered, James shifted in his chair, finally removing his knee from Lord Hamilton's. Though he’d managed to convince himself that it was a protective gesture, not unlike keeping one’s men within a specified sight line before battle, he was instinctively clarifying physical parameters in preparation for a fight. Along those same lines he pulled off his sword belt and offered it over to Lord Hamilton for safe-keeping.

“Might I burden you with this a moment, My Lord?”

Thomas seemed to find the request amusing in some way, his cheeks flushing a lovely shade of pink that the Lieutenant had to fight himself to keep from touching. The young lord accepted the weapon decorously, their eye locking for a moment over the exchange of it. James felt his heart pounding so loudly in his chest he was sure the other two could hear it.  

“I’ll have you know I boxed at Cambridge,” Trevelyan was insisting, his voice thin and reedy in its rage. James noted that just _thinking_ about fighting had the prat out of breath and willed his unruly organ to allow him to stand. “Now get up, you pleb--or are you all mouth and no trousers!?”

James exhaled and started to push back his seat, but couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from Lord Hamilton’s.

“Oh _I_ see what it is,” Trevelyan continued nastily, baiting him. “You await your master’s command. Well you needn’t trouble yourself, _Lieutenant_. I assure you, Hambers is _dying_ for you to hit me. He's quite partial to rough trade, those burly workmen down in Houndsditch--”

The Lieutenant was up in the space of half a second, upper lip curling back from his teeth, all colour draining from his skin, hands in fists so fast he had to unfurl them as he flew across the small table to grab Lord Trevelyan by the throat. There was a part of his brain that knew that to be in the company of a man fighting in a place like Garraway’s would cause greater harm to Lord Hamilton’s reputation than any slight sneered by Lord Trevelyan ever could, but it had been vitiated. Nothing existed now beyond rage, pure and unbound and lethal. The contents of the table went clattering to the floor, cups shattering and coffee splashing in every direction. Though the Lieutenant’s chair only skidded backwards away from the fracas, Lord Trevelyan’s seat was knocked over on its side as its former occupant was thrown to the floor. James felt a bony chest beneath his knee, fingers yanking at his hair, an unspecified pressure exerting against his chest in a futile effort to shove him back.

But the lid had been kicked off the bottomless well of fury that seeped and sloshed beneath his heart. So much hurt and humiliation swam through those depths that it bewildered even him. He felt his fist connecting with bone as he drove it into the indistinct face of his enemy; he had already forgotten the slight and even the man who made it. What he needed now was blood. Blood because there had never been tears. Blood because if he was going to drown, better to drown in that hot, red fluid than in the cold, dark bilge water of his soul.

~ Installment 7, [Beatrice](http://beatrice3030.tumblr.com/) ~

  
Thomas leapt up reflexively the moment James launched himself across the table, and then stood with his shoulders pressed against the wall, sweating and breathing hard; utterly transfixed by the two men grappling and grunting at his feet. Around their table, the room fell quiet as a hundred bewigged figures craned their necks to gawp at the unfolding drama; some amused, some curious, and some scandalised.

Within the first fraction of a second, it had been obvious that this would be a rout rather than a fight, and already Trevelyan’s teeth were stained pink with blood, his eyes dazed and punch-drunk. James had him completely overpowered in a way that made Thomas crave a little of the same treatment; pinned to the floor like an insect, his fists beating uselessly against the Lieutenant’s jaw with no more force than a pair of papery wings.

Watching it happen, Thomas felt his heart pulled in every direction. However cruel and vacuous he was, Trevelyan had been a friend and a lover, and it was horrible to watch him suffer. Thomas couldn’t help but empathise with the poor defeated creature. _But he had hurt James_. And not just inadvertently, he had reached with pinpoint accuracy - no, with _relish_ \- for the words that would bring James the maximum pain and humiliation. Thomas could understand that. He could even forgive it, eventually. But he couldn’t let it go unanswered.

Trevelyan’s fit of pique would cost him dear this time, but perhaps now he would finally realise what weak tea was his own suffering, set against the deep oceans of misery that other, better, men carried within them. It was a lesson he had never managed to learn through reasoned argument, perhaps this was the only way…

 _I’ll have to intervene, what if he can’t stop?_ James seemed insensible to the damage he was inflicting, his eyes ablaze with righteous heat but strangely unseeing. _Please hold back James. He’s only ever fought pampered boys, never men like you…_

Galvanised by a cry of pain from Trevelyan, Thomas threw down the still-warm sword belt he’d been twisting in his hands, and dropped to his knees.

“It’s over... James, you need to stop!”

The Lieutenant gave no sign that he’d heard, and raised his fist once again, ready to strike.

“James, leave him be!”

Thomas caught the fist just before it began its descent, straining every muscle in his arm to hold it back, almost toppling over with the effort it cost him.

~ Installment 8, [Megan](http://bornofsuchdarkthings.tumblr.com/) ~ 

 

There was a moment of panicked confusion; Thomas’s voice was too close, his physical presence too immediate. The field of battle had been breached--was he in danger? Sight came back to the Lieutenant’s green eyes like the flame of a newly struck match; first a small spark and then blazing candescence. He turned to see the lord on his knees at his side, struggling with something corporeal. It took James a moment to realize that the object in question was his own fist. He pulled it back, horrified, expression flashing from fury to dismay in a heartbeat. Moving to take the lord’s face in his hands, to make sure that he was truly unharmed, he saw the blood that covered them and froze.

 _Trevelyan. Garraway’s. Rough trade. Houndsditch._ James came back to reality like a diver resurfacing from deep, still water. He looked from his bloody hands back up to Lord Hamilton and then abruptly turned to witness the damage he’d done to Lord Trevelyan.

The man was so grisly and pathetic that it was hard to feel anything for him beyond disgust. He remained on the floor like so much spilled coffee, fear and hatred in his long-lashed dark eyes as he glared up at James. The Lieutenant regarded him for a long moment, feeding on both. He felt more angry than remorseful, as though Trevelyan had forced him to degrade himself in front of Lord Hamilton, but it was no longer an acrimony that demanded action. After a slight scoff of disgust he turned back to Thomas, his face contorting with all the contrition he could not spare for his friend.

“I am so sorry, My Lord,” he said quietly, so careful to expunge any trace of Padstow from his accent that it was almost painful to listen to. He seemed to be doing his best to ignore the other patrons that had started to gather around them, but could hardly have failed to be aware of them. “I will do whatever it takes to set this right. Please forgive me…”

Thomas shook his head at him but there was no censure in it, no disgust or indignation. It looked more like “don’t worry,” than “what have you done?” and the compassion in his eyes almost undid James. Who _was_ this man? So strong in his gentleness, so self-assured and tender and curious and attentive and _alive_. And also vulnerable. He looked like an angel fallen straight from heaven as he kneeled on the floor staring unflinchingly into James’ soul. James ached to touch him, but didn’t dare bloody the white of his coat or his alabaster flesh. But he did open his hands to him, palms up, blood and all, as if in offering. He _wanted_ this man to see him, all of him. He would hide nothing. And whatever Thomas made of him, that is what he would be.

James didn’t know how long they sat like that, staring at each other over his ensanguined palms, but it was long enough for something to shift and change forever--though whether in the room, the cosmos, or his heart he couldn’t have said. He knew only that he felt subdued but not suppressed, calm in a way he couldn’t remember ever feeling before, utterly altered and renewed. Thomas was eventually forced to turn away and begin managing the intrusive outrage and concern of the strangers surrounding them, so James shifted to retrieve his sword belt, which he’d noticed discarded on the floor nearby. Once he had the weapon in hand, the lieutenant rose slowly to his feet and kept his gaze directed downward. Not because he was ashamed, but because he did not want to be distracted while he calmly waited for his companion’s attention to return to him, and for the nature of the transformation to be revealed.    

~ Installment 9, [Beatrice](http://beatrice3030.tumblr.com/) ~

  
“I cannot abide this place a moment longer… will you walk with me?”

James looked up and nodded his assent with such obvious pleasure that it was all Thomas could do not to wrap the darling man in his arms. Instead he simply smiled, and side by side they made their way back through the press of the crowd – most of whom paid them no heed now that they had ceased to be entertaining - and out into the street. Once there, they paused to drink in the fresh air, sharing a silent moment of relief. What utter bliss to be alone at last. The fog had cleared a little, and a refreshing mist of rain had begun to fall.

Thomas’s hastily concocted story that the fight was over a gambling debt had been an easy sell, as he’d suspected. Trevelyan’s face was well-known and his long-established reputation for getting into scrapes had done much of the heavy lifting. And as for Trevelyan himself, he’d shrugged away the hand that Thomas had offered him, choosing instead to stagger to his feet unaided, all petulance and affronted pride. His parting shot - muttered _sotto voce_ as he flounced out - had done little to win back Thomas’s sympathy:

“Perhaps you _are_ as mad as they all say. A rational man might fuck in the gutter from time to time, but only a _lunatic_ would go there and fall in _love_.”                   

 _In love…_ Thomas snuck a quick glance at the Lieutenant and felt his cheeks begin to glow  _… and how._ Although the word ‘love’ seemed too slight a thing to do justice to the way he felt. It was like waking from an enchanted sleep; a lucid dream that he’d drifted through ghost-like and oblivious to his condition. He’d believed himself to be happy and fulfilled, when it was really a slow death that he had endured. James had been the one to show him what it meant to _really_ live. And he rejoiced in this new life, whatever torments it might bring.

“This way, follow me.”

Turning off the main street, they found themselves almost immediately in one of those strange pockets of London where it is always empty and quiet, no matter the time of day. Every window that might have looked down on them was shuttered, and every door had its mouth firmly closed against the cold. Thomas turned to face the Lieutenant and examined him anxiously for evidence of harm:

“Are you all right? Let me look at you.”

Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he reached out and took the Lieutenant’s coarse, bloodied hands in his own; the ones he’d been desperate to press to his lips ever since James had offered them up in supplication. Wiping away the angry red stains as best he could, he felt a slight tremor around the other man’s wrists but did not draw attention to it. It was most likely just an aftershock of his rage, but Thomas allowed himself to hope that the intimacy of this moment was its cause.

He was taking too long over this, he knew it. But it was deeply satisfying to serve the man he loved, to care for him; the temptation to make it last was too great. God only knew when another opportunity would present itself to stand so close; close enough to feel James’s breath wash hot and humid over his throat. Breath rich with the promise of a forceful urgent mouth, lips that might caress him, teeth that might possess him…

With his heart pounding louder than ever in his ears, he noticed that he was simply holding the Lieutenant’s hands now and gazing at them like a palmist. Hastily he let them fall.

“That’s a little better I think.” He looked up and smiled. “Oh, but your hair though… it’s come loose.”

His hand was at the Lieutenant’s temple before he could restrain it, catching hold of the strands of gingery hair that blew across his face and tucking them away. James did not flinch from his touch, but startled a little to see how untidy he’d become. His neatness was a kind of ritual magic, Thomas knew, and without it he seemed anxious that the spell of respectability that he cast about himself might suddenly break. Thomas saw an opportunity and seized it:

“May I?”

Obedient as you like, James turned around and let Thomas begin tidying his hair. Sweeping up every one of his unruly locks, taming them with his hands, binding them tight. Such an intimate act for one man to perform on another, it felt more transgressive than a kiss. Thomas stroked his fingers through it slowly, his mouth falling open as he enjoyed the silky feel of each strand against his skin. He could not resist thrusting his fingertips into the warm thicket at the nape of the Lieutenant’s neck, lifting it up and away to expose the skin there, all vulnerable and ticklish.

Oh god, how he ached to see that tousled head sleeping beside him, to kiss that soft, freckled skin into wakefulness. He held his breath and brought his face up close, rubbing a thick handful of hair against his cheek and over his open mouth…with his eyes closed it was almost real; the pillow, the bed and the warm naked body that waited for him under the cool sheets…

He swallowed hard, and forced the tide of emotion to subside: “There, you’re perfect now.”

~ Installment 10, [Megan](http://bornofsuchdarkthings.tumblr.com/) ~ 

“Hardly that, I’m sure.”

James knew that only a madman would stand grinning in the rain with another man’s blood still wet on his hands, but he could not contain his exhilaration as he spun back around to face Lord Hamilton. He had wanted--intended, even, for a second--to remain with his back to him forever, feeling the man’s touch against his head, those long, elegant fingers in his hair, but he couldn’t bear to have him out of his sight. He had never, in his whole life, been happier, and although he’d had enough experience with fighting to recognize that part of it was the rush of having successfully vanquished some kind of threat, the greater part of it was indelibly connected to the man before him. He felt warm despite the rain, clean despite the blood and almost irresistibly compelled to confess the gripping beauty of the moment to Thomas, who was smiling back at him, and who was surely having the same experience. Raindrops glistening like scattered jewels across the dirty alleyway, the air so fresh and bracing, the world lit with such promise--it was all for them, it had to be, they were perfectly in the center of it. James was desperate to find a way to explain it. He put his hands on Thomas’ shoulders suddenly, emboldened by joy, and carefully shifted him two degrees to the right. Thomas looked confused, but moved his feet cooperatively. When he was satisfied with Thomas’s position, James swallowed and dropped his hands to his sides, the grin disappearing from his face as he regarded the other man with a fervid intensity.

“There, My Lord. You are my True North.”

Thomas’ mouth fell open slightly and his eyes widened in something that looked a bit like shock. Worried that he’d confused him, James rushed on.

“It -- it’s a good thing. It means I can always find you, or really, rather, that once I find you, I can always find my way.”

Thomas looked slightly distressed to James, worried perhaps? How was he not feeling the magic pulsing all around them?

“I know what it means, James,” he said softly. “I’m just having the most dreadful time trying to decide whether or not _you_ do.”  

The Lieutenant scoffed. “Of course _I_ know what it means, I’m a mariner.”

Thomas threw up his hands then and turned his gaze heavenward, making a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. ”I swear, Lieutenant, you’ll be the death of me.”

“How can you say such a thing, My Lord? I’m here to _save_ you.” James moved Thomas again, pushing him backwards into a doorway where he’d be sheltered from the rain, and stood for a long moment with his hands on the other man’s arms, staring at him with a kind of wonder. His eyes fell to Lord Hamilton’s chest suddenly and his mouth rearranged itself into a frown. “Are you holding your breath, Thomas? My god, you must be freezing.”  He let go quickly, whipped off his coat, whirled it around Thomas’ shoulders and then darted back into the rain. “Stay right there, My Lord, I’m going to get your carriage!”

With one last crooked grin thrown over his shoulder, Lieutenant James McGraw ran back toward Lombard Street, coatless and impervious to the wet and the cold, his feet pounding the cobblestones in time with his rapidly beating heart. Though he didn’t yet know it on a conscious level, anyone who saw him would have had no doubt that the man was violently, irrevocably in love.

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